Bread & Butter
by bouncingcrow
Summary: Updated summary: A series of one-shots that follow loosely sequential events following Natalia Romanova, aka Black Widow, aka Natasha Romanoff, from her joining SHIELD through Avengers movie. Movie-verse only. Blackhawk pairing and occasional POVs of other characters.
1. She tastes like midnight

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or any specific plot lines of movies/comics/etc. Also, lyrics are not mine.**

**Author's Note: If you've never listened to Hugo, you absolutely should. After discovering his 99 Problems, I then found "Bread and Butter," which was absolutely the inspiration for this fic. Thus the chapter titles are all lyrics from said song. **

**Also, as I am posting this under the movie, this story will be strictly movie verse. I am playing with the idea of writing a canon piece as well...we'll see.**

Chapter 1: She tastes like midnight; she tastes like wine.

Natalia, Black Widow, whatever her name was now, sat at the table, her green (for today) eyes baring into the fat bureaucrat across from her. A serene smile was plastered onto her features, and her cheek muscles hurt from the strain, but she found the ache comforting. It was like an old friend, reminding her of why, in just a few hours time, she would be walking away from this bloated corpse. The thought made her genuinely smile; the man was a corpse, and he just hadn't caught up yet.

She snaked the toe of her heel up the man's calf while she laughed at the joke he must have just said. She had to assume it was a joke, since the bastard was nearly choking in mirth. She vaguely hoped he succeeded.

He recovered. Damn.

There was a slight pull, though, a tingling sensation that she had had all night. It had been bugging her since she took to the street earlier in the evening, when the sun was just falling behind the buildings. It was like the very tips of someone's fingers tracing her spine, sending an involuntarily shudder through her.

She was being followed, she knew.

So while her date – target – was doubled over, she took a second to scan the room. Nothing amiss. Drunk men and their hired women were surrounding them. Her concern was swiftly giving way to anger at the audacity someone had to send a pup after her.

The man offered her a cigarette from a stack of them arrayed prettily inside a gold box. Her fingers wrapped around one, carefully designed to make him think of those fingers around another object, and pulled it out, sealing it within her mouth with her full red lips. The man licked his own lips, as he leaned forward, quite a task for one of his size, to light the end for her.

When all was lit, she brushed her fingers over his hand with a wink and leaned back. She took a quick look around again, now more certain that she was being watched. Still seeing nothing, she focused her attention on the time. It was nearing 1am; surely this barrel of lard was ready to get a move on.

Black Widow stifled a yawn and stretched against her chair, arching her back against the wood, making her breasts in her barely-there dress more prominent. She saw with satisfaction that tiny beads of sweat had developed on the man's brow. He stood, struggling to fight secure footing, muttered something to her, and she took his arm with a grateful smile.

_Good,_ she thought,_ I can get this over with and find the stupid asshole that decided to follow me._

The pair made their way up the grand staircase in the center of the room, the man panting with the exertion, and Black Widow impatiently slowing her pace to accommodate. The hallway above them was covered in a thick carpet that silenced their footfalls, as they approached the suite that was awaiting them. There were guards posted outside, of course, but the man waved them away. One of them began to protest, but he followed orders, regardless.

Black Widow smiled at that; she was so much like this guard. She would simply bow her head and follow orders. Or at least, it had been that way. Something had been happening to her, though she couldn't put her finger on it. There had been a time when she was so focused on a mission that – oh, speaking of which, the door was open.

She stepped inside daintily, scanning the room. Sparse was not a word that came to mind. The walls were decorated with Renaissance-inspired paintings, sporting curvy women half naked. There was a sitting area with plush chairs, and the bed was a four-poster behemoth with curtains pulled away to reveal the deep crimson throw and matching pillows.

If she wanted to, she could stay in the room over night. _If_ she wanted to. But she didn't want to. She couldn't remember the last time she had desired such creature comforts over the security of knowing every way in and out of her own quarters.

A grubby hand was snaking up her thigh. She bit back her gag reflex and looked at the man with a smile, "Need to freshen up."

He smiled back, a grotesque mask of flesh mimicking her own movements.

And then there was that feeling again. She needed a minute to find some more answers. The bathroom was no less opulent, with gold fittings, marble sinks, and a tub that could fit half the population on Monaco. And, not surprising, there was a window in here.

She knew it was a bad idea; she knew it was unprofessional, but she was feeling bold, so she stood right in the window, peering out.

"Where are you, little hound dog?" she whispered to the empty room.

With a final scan of the surrounding area, she turned and went about the rest of her job. One-on-one inside the room with no guards meant that she could wrestle the blob of a man into submission, then kill him. But she found that poison worked just as well, sometimes more quickly, and there was definitely less mess.

She hadn't been sent on this assignment to send a message, anyway. This man was not important or well known in her circles or the public, and he had no important information. He had probably failed to follow through on a bargain, or maybe he had fucked somebody's wife, though she found that hard to believe. At the end of the night, they wanted him dead, and Black Widow was the woman hired to make sure that that became a fact.

She opened her modified Widow's Bite, disguised as a silver bracelet, it had only one charge for an emergency, and a compartment for nifty things like poison. She had enough, and surely the man would want another drink. Otherwise, she wasn't above simply shoving it down his throat. The though made her smile.

She gave one last look out the window, that feeling of fingers on her spine again, and suppressing a shudder, she returned to the main room.

Sure enough, the man was seated in one of the chairs, a fat cigar hanging out of his pouty lips. She nodded toward the liquor cabinet, and he grinned in response.

With a smile, she turned to make them drinks. She poured the best vodka offered into two glasses, dropping the poison into his with the ice. She watched it dissolve as she made her own drink, then turned, walking the cool glass to him, then joining him.

While he continued his conversation from earlier, she focused on watching his physiology. His brow began to bead with sweat, as he sipped on his cocktail. He began to clear his throat. She offered him some water when he did, but he waved away her suggestion. She watched his left hand clench and open repeatedly, as if trying to hold onto something that wasn't there. His eyes started to get glassy, and his words were beginning to slur.

"Can I help you to bed," she asked in a sultry and concerned voice.

He grumbled his response and held out his glass. She obliged him with a refill, listening to his sporadic breathing and involuntarily groans. She was getting impatient.

When she returned with his glass, she slid onto his lap, brushing her slender fingers through his thinning hair. Being close to him, she could feel his heart beat rise, as well as his shirt, sticky with sweat. She felt his heart beat faster, faster, and then she felt it stuttering. He pushed her away none-too-gently to pound on his chest.

She had seen this before, and it always amused her, as if the person could jump start their heart on their own, like a self-CPR. He leaned over with a strangled, wheezing cough, and his eyes looked up her, pleadingly.

He opened his mouth to instruct her to find help, but he fell off the chair, then, struggling to breath. She sighed, finding that this was all too theatrical for her, so she climbed up the bed, found a pillow, and then helped the poor man find his peace.

He struggled for a moment, amazing her at how desperately people cling even to the bleakest moments of their lives, and then he went still. She returned the pillow to the bed, and crept to the door to check outside. The guards had stayed away, as ordered. _Good soldiers_, she thought, as she opened the door and slid out. Just in case, she tousled her hair, wrinkled and adjusted her dress, and slipped out of her shoes, opting to carry them.

She passed the guards at the bottom of the stairs and gave them a strained, shamed smile while looking away. The guards ribbed each other with knowing grins, and remained at the bottom of the stairs, monitoring the crowd that had thinned considerably.

Once outside the building, she returned her shoes, found her car, and slid in. It bothered her that she couldn't shake the feeling of being followed, but she could do nothing about it until she was in her secure base, so she drove off.


	2. Gonna run my fingers down your spine

**Disclaimer: Still do not own characters or specific movie plots.**

**Author's Note: The first chapter was super long. I didn't realize. So this one is shorter and, as you have probably guessed, Clint's POV. It might skip around based on lyrics...so...yeah.**

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Chapter 2: Gonna run my fingers all down your spine

When Agent Barton, codename Hawkeye, had stepped from the helicopter and into the bitter cold, he had that sinking feeling that this mission was going to be a cluster fuck. He had been on enough of them to know, and he been the cause of enough of them to see the signs.

His base of operations was little more than a shack with a wood-burning stove that gave off about as many BTUs as a cell phone, and the cot had been eaten away by rats. Plush atmosphere was not a necessity, but for all of SHIELD's resources, it seemed they were unable to afford fuck-all for field missions.

The target, the Russian operative codenamed Black Widow, had a reputation, and the idea of getting into a spy war with her left a bitter taste in his mouth. He had flipped through her dossier, a file perhaps thicker than his own, paling at the list of men who had fallen prey to the spider. Oh, and there was a list of the information and secrets she had stolen as well; it was a little emasculating to read her file, but he soothed his ego by reminding it that they had sent him because no one else could manage the job.

SHIELD had called in a hit on some lousy mobster type to lure her out, and it had worked. Clint had posted himself on the building opposite the manor-turned-luxury hotel, and watched as a tall drink of vodka joined some blob of a man. He had almost felt sorry for the asshole when he slapped the assassin on the ass, but not too much.

Black Widow was, admittedly, more gorgeous than her file gave her credit for, but he was not here to ogle, he was here to shoot an arrow out of his bow and kill her. He arched an eyebrow when she turned to look at the building, a curious expression written on those porcelain features.

He tilted his head to speak into the comm, "Ah...we sure she is not aware of who called in this hit? Because she just turned eyes onto my position."

Coulson's calm voice crackled back, "Have you been compromised?"

"Don't insult me. She looked at the building; if she's as good as her long list of accomplishments implies, then she can feel something is going on here."

There was a drawn out silence, in which Clint had an opportunity to watch the woman disappear into the building with the unnamed and unimportant mobster. He loosened the tension on his bow string and sat back, waiting for a response and their return. As the silence stretched on, he felt confident the woman would be outside again before the suits had an answer for him.

On cue, the response came, "Stay with her. If she suspects you there, follow her, and engage when she returns to her accomodations."

Clint choked on the words, then replied with only a hint of sarcasm, "Great plan. I'll walk _into_ the spider's web to catch her. She'll never suspect a damn thing. Brilliant."

"You have your orders," was his only response. It was always his only response. If he could reach through the radio signal and give the suits the finger, he would.

Instead, Coulson came on again, "You're being surveilled by video, Agent Barton, so keep that in mind."

He grumbled and settled in against the stone to wait. He noticed after a moment that the protrusion beside him was a grotesque gargoyle, its eyes scanning the city warily. He sighed and patted its head, "You and me both, buddy."

He could see her inside the ballroom, dancing and chatting up the party-goers like she belonged there. She sat with the target, smiling distantly and responding when necessary. A few times, she saw her sweep a glance over the crowd. She could definitely feel his presence, and he felt his own wave of excitement at the challenge and a little bit of fear that he was so obvious.

And then she was standing in the window, exposed to any attacker. It was a ballsy move, and even as he trained his sights on her, he hesitated. It wasn't the plunging neckline of her dress or the way her curls reflected the light of the bathroom. No, it was her brazen attitude, her dare to take her out right there. He was, quite simply, impressed. And he chose not to mention the opening to his handler.

It was a few hours before she reemerged, her hair and dress no longer perfect, but he could tell it was staged. He smirked at this and watched her slide into the car. He watched her sit for a moment before pulling out, and then he moved. He didn't have to follow her car; there were other ways of doing that, but he did want to beat her to her station, so he had to move quickly.

Black Widow had been stationed in a small house on the outskirts of town; it had more than one room, and he could see from the outside that it was heated. A moment of envy crept up, and he thought that perhaps going freelance wasn't a bad idea, but he clamped down those thoughts quickly and went to work.

He knew better than to get up close to this woman, but there were not a lot of options for roosts. The woman was too good; she had set up a location with very few long sights of the place, much less any with access to windows. He grimaced, mentally chiding himself for not taking the shot earlier. She had already gained the upper hand.

Clint was sure that it couldn't get worse until he saw the lights of the car pulling up the road. Cursing in any language he knew, he threw himself into a last-ditch plan that probably would fail, but it was the best he could do. Sticking to the shadows, he procured a blade and kept it sheathed to avoid the light hitting it and giving him away.

The woman walked boldly to the door; if she was aware of him, she gave no sign, either out of genuine negligence or blatant disregard, he was unsure. While she worried with the lock, he took his chance, sliding out of the shadows in one swift motion, unsheathing the knife and bringing it to her neck. He was ready to slide it across to pretty flesh when he realized, belatedly, that his ankle had struck a pressure wire.

They stood in awkward silence for a moment.

"Does it go off now or after my foot moves?"

The femme-fatale arched an eyebrow, "What do you think, soldier?"

Clint cleared his throat, "Yeah. Well..."

Given the precarious position, Black Widow knew that any sort of defensive maneuver would cause the wire to trip. So did the man behind her. And he wouldn't slit her throat yet because when either of them moved, the damn explosion would be set off.

"This is brilliant work. Who do you work for?"

"Uh," Clint ignored her and carefully tilted his head to activate his comm, "I have a situation here. I need back up."

The response took too long, "Are you compromised?"

This set him off, yelling at the invisible suits behind the radio waves, "Yes! I'm fucking compromised! I have a goddamn trip wire on my ankle just waiting to blow up my quarry not to mention myself!"

Silence again, though Clint could imagine the laughter in the control room.

"Copy that, Agent Barton. We will send back up. Is your target eliminated?"

"Not...yet. It's complicated."

Clint could feel the woman in front of him smiling, her arms raised in a half-hearted surrender, "This is going to stay with you for some time, Agent."

He pressed the blade against her throat a little harder, a small bead of crimson appearing at the edge, "I don't need your lip. I got the drop on you."

She reached back and patted his leg comfortingly, "But at what cost?"

He sighed and stood rigidly. There was not really much else to say. Instead, he worked on ignoring the obvious and changed the subject, "What kind of shampoo is that? It smells amazing."

She shrugged, "It's just some generic brand. I don't use anything specific. Were you watching me at the hotel?"

_Don't answer that_, he thought.

Instead, he redirected again, "How much do you get paid?"

She barked a laugh, "Thinking of switching sides?"

"Thinking of going freelance."

She peered over her shoulder, "I make more than you. But I also don't have friends to call on when I get in too deep."

He scowled, and they awaited the team in silence.


	3. Like a bad dream, stay on my mind

**Author's Note: At the rate I am going, I will likely run out of lyrics before I run out of story line. In answer to that, the story might jump into the future or the past here and then, but I will try to keep this a straight shot. No promises, kay?**

Chapter 3: Like a bad dream, stay on my mind

"This is going to stay with you for a long time," she had said to him when he failed to eliminate her. Neither had a real clue as to how true the statement would turn out to be.

Clint's back up had arrived with barely-disguised mockery written all over their faces, while they went to work disarming the explosive and securing the target.

Black Widow regarded him from the chair where they had tied her, inside the building, at least, to have some modicum of discretion, "Is this where you kill me?"

He had been pacing, tapping the knife against his leg in a spasmodic rhythm that gave away his frustration. He didn't respond, just set two confused, almost feverish, eyes on her. At least her question stopped his frantic back-and-forth march, and she was able to focus without the metronome of his feet on the hard wood. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it, and she rolled her eyes as he began pacing again.

"It's okay, you know. I wouldn't take it personal. You're a good soldier, following orders. I used to be a good soldier, too, but..."

She trailed off, her mind finally catching up to her lips, which were flapping about things they had no business sharing with a stranger. _Of course_, she thought, _I'm just a corpse that hasn't figure it out yet._ She smiled at the thought, and it must have looked gruesome, since the man stopped and studied her.

"No. I have a better idea."

This set her into work mode. She knew how to find buttons, how to press them, and how to use the treats that inevitably came out afterward. She looked outside the window, then answered, her voice low, as if admitting something to him, lost in her own thoughts and unaware of his words moments ago.

"I was a good soldier before I went freelance anyway," she looked at the floor then, studying the lines in the wood, the grain patterns, and the dust.

When she looked back up, her face was resolute, "But I don't regret it. I have tasted freedom for the first time in many years; I set my own rules."

He stared at her a moment, and she felt sure that he was going to follow along with what she was gently pushing for. And then he laughed. Her face twisted in confusion and anger, which he didn't see because he had bent over double, holding his sides while he nearly went into hysterics. It felt like an eternity before he stood, his laughter dying into chuckles, wiping the corners of his eyes.

He nodded at her, "Oh, you are good. You are very good. But I'm not taking the bait, Widow."

She scowled at him, then spat at his feet, "Just get this over with then, dog."

He shook his head, grabbing another chair and practically throwing it into the spot in front of her. He turned it around, straddled the back, and crossed his arms over the top, pointing a calloused index finger at her, "I don't think so. I have a better idea, like I said, and that idea involves you living...and coming to work for us."

It was her turn to laugh.

He wasn't angry at her response, though. He seemed completely nonplussed, and this set her own ire off again, but she bit it back. He just shrugged and nodded toward the door, "Not like you have a choice."

She began to carefully consider her options. She could kill this man in front of her easily enough, and she could likely take down most of the other agents, but then that would mean running and having an even longer list of enemies while her number of allies dwindled down into the negatives.

Sensing her struggle, Agent Barton held up a thumb, "First of all, yeah, you could probably kill me and the other agents. But then you'd be blown up, and you know it. Secondly, we offer steady income and, I have to say it, some pretty cool toys." He held up two more fingers as he listed the perks.

He continued, "The cons are you have to defect from your mother land, and you still have to follow orders. But that's still outweighed by the cool toys you would get working with us."

…...

It was a few weeks before Natalia had shown up at HQ, waving the metaphorical white flag. She hated herself for being there, and she hated that Agent Barton even more, knowing that he had let her go because he knew she would be following. But he had struck on the truth with her; she had already defected, really, and it was only a matter of time before the motherland decided she was a threat.

_The enemy of my enemy is my friend_, she thought with a bitter smile, as she was led through a maze of tunnels and hallways, countless blank faces passing her by. The little excursion ended at a metal door, which slid open with the press of a few numbered keys, and she was escorted into an overly-white room with a table and four chairs. She was directed to sit, and she obeyed.

Water was deposited, along with some glasses. She ignored them, and instead counted the seconds, and then minutes, that ticked by, leaving her alone in the stark room.

And then the door opened again, allowing Agent Barton, and two men Natalia did not recognize, to enter. One was tall, African-American, wearing an eye patch – not a face that one would forget. And the other was absolutely a face she would forget, probably one that she had passed in the hallway. He wore a suit and carried a leather-bound pad for writing, stuffed with a folder. She imagined he was one of the suits behind the entertaining comm antics that Barton had displayed.

The two strangers sat and regarded her in silence. She could tell from their body language that the man with the eye patch was the uncontested leader, the suit was his second, and Barton was, well, probably in some trouble. Agent Barton, for his part, flashed her a cocky smile, which she vowed to wipe cleanly from his face any time she had a chance. Ever.

The suit opened the pad, revealing a manilla folder that was being pressed beyond its limits to contain the information that had been stuffed in it. He opened said folder, and she recognized the information within because it was obviously her file. She didn't look away; instead, she met his gaze, unflinching and unapologetic.

Eye Patch spoke first, "We have to admit that we are impressed with your work, Ms. Romanova."

She slid her eyes to him, focusing on the pupil that remained. Still, she said nothing.

He was unfazed, and he continued, "Which is why, Ms. Romanova, we did not dispatch of Agent Barton here when he brought you in, instead of following through on his mission." At the mention of Barton, his eye slid to the man, who shrugged.

Then his gaze returned to her, "And which is why you are inside this building, staring me down, instead of a few clumps of brain matter and a fine mist that our workers would have to clean off the wall in the morning."

She gave him a smirk at that. She had to admit, he was colorful.

"The only question left, Ms. Romanova, is what do you plan to do about our generosity?"

Her eyes flicked among the men in the room, the testosterone so potent she could practically taste it. Her options were still limited here, but she took comfort knowing that, should she choose, she could always defect here, too, and it was in that spirit that she responded, "I want to be paid what he is." She nodded to Barton without looking at him.

Eye Patch's lips drew into a thin line. He and Suit made eye contact, and then Suit nodded and took over, "That is acceptable, Ms. Romanova."

"And it's Agent Romanoff from here on out."

The two nodded and made to leave, but Eye Patch wasn't done. He held up a gloved finger, then looked at her, as if remembering some vitally important detail, "I almost forgot. You'll be partnered with him," he indicated to Agent Barton, and then Eye Patch and Suit left the room.

Natalia's jaw actually dropped, as she looked over at her new partner, who just shrugged, "Welcome to SHIELD, Agent Romanoff."

…...

At first she had counted the days, then the weeks, months, and finally years, until now she barely remembered the time before she worked with Clint. But just like the nightmares of childhood that would wake her in a cold sweat, the memory of her new beginning was seared into her mind.

It had become sort of a joke for all of them.

"Oh, I see I have yet to wake from this nightmare," she would say, and he would respond, "This is going to stay with you for some time, Agent."


	4. Gonna spread you like butter

Chapter 4: Gonna spread you like butter

Natalia Romanova, AKA Black Widow, AKA Natasha Romanoff, AKA whatever name they gave her to operate under for a job.

She had taken to making a tally of her jobs with SHIELD since she began. That lasted through the first fifty or so, and then she stopped because she had no time. She suspected she was being punished, whether for being Russian or joining at all, she was not sure, but breathing had become something she had to schedule between assignments.

Still, she had the list memorized: Palermo, Granada, Tokyo, Cali, and, strangely enough, Warsaw, were the highlights. Then there were the targets, the information, and the nights that she had spent in dilapidated warehouses waiting for her partner to navigate rafters and take a shot. Not to mention the on-the-job medical training she had received, having no choice but to learn how to staple shut a wound. She shuddered at the memory and involuntarily touched her shoulder.

She blamed her partner, anyway. He was the one who broke protocol to bring her in, and while she felt she should be grateful that he hadn't just shoot an arrow through her face, there were days she thought perhaps it would be preferable. But right now, he was talking, and she had zoned out.

"...impossible to be in two places at once, but apparently that's what we're being assigned to do."

Natasha raised an eyebrow – this was her new name, she figured, since she had defected – and waited for him to continue.

Clint ran a hand over his close-cropped hair and looked across at her, "How big is Budapest, anyway?"

"Five-hundred twenty five kilometers, population a little less than 2 million," she answered without looking up from her own dossier.

She knew without looking that he was giving her that, 'you're a fucking computer look,' which was confirmed when he blurted out, "Geez, Natasha, you're like a fucking computer." She smiled.

"You asked," she responded with a shrug, only now looking up.

"Well, we have two targets. They'll be on opposite sides of the city within thirty minutes of each other," he finished, then, looking around and leaning closer conspiratorially, he whispered, "I think this is punishment."

"Barton, while I hate to be the one pointing out the obvious, there are two of us assigned to the mission. Is it, perhaps, possible that we simply need to split up and take the targets separately?"

He chewed on his lip, which Natasha had come to recognize as his 'shit is going down' look, and replied, "I have a bad feeling, is all."

…...

"_You and I remember Budapest very differently," he calls over his shoulder._

She realizes that that makes a lot of sense, since their splitting up had been a good thing for him. When Clint had said that he had a bad feeling, it had been, unknowingly, on her behalf.

Clint's target had stood in a window overlooking a garden for a solid ten minutes, giving Clint ample time to set up, maneuver around some obstacles, wait for the wind to die down, and then take the shot. He was done thirty minutes after that, and he had arrived in their rendezvous destination almost two hours early. He also waited an extra half hour past their schedule meeting time to call in back-up.

His excuse was that Budapest was, after all, 525 square kilometers, so it might have taken her a while to get back. The truth, as they both knew but never discussed, was that he had fallen asleep.

Natasha, on the other hand, had apparently walked into the middle of a war zone.

Things hadn't gone _bad_, they had gone disastrous, they had gone epic-fuck-up-who-the-hell-did-the-reconnaissance-bad. Because one minute, Natasha was approaching the target on the street, and the next minute, there was a rain of bullets coming straight at her, and the target. The target went down in the first wave, and the dumb shits sent to take him out were obviously amateurs, since they kept shooting at Natasha.

And then the return fire had started.

Natasha had learned about trench warfare as a child because history is important in Russia, and as far as war tactics go, it was not the worst idea in the world. Unless, of course, you were in the middle of two trenches, in No Man's Land, which she was.

Cursing the names of everyone she knew at SHIELD and everyone she had known that made her defect in the first place, she took cover behind some jalopy that was already riddled with bullet holes. Not wishing to take sides, she resolved to simply kill every last motherfucker that was swiftly turning this into a very bad day.

One thing that could be said about Natasha was that she always kept her word when it came to death threats. The carnage and body count were on the front page of the local spread the following morning, and when Natasha had arrived at their rendezvous point, battered, bruised, and bleeding, she slapped Clint so hard that he had needed dental work.

Coulson and the Suits had arrived by then, but no one was stupid enough to stand in her way. A few even chuckled. Not Coulson, though, he saw what was happening, and he was concerned. He was ready to step in, but it had been unnecessary because that was also when Natasha told Fury, in no uncertain terms, that she was not butter or jam, and there was no excuse for spreading her so thin. She had screamed this over the comm, loud enough that the people around her heard the feedback.

It was almost a month after that before they were called into action again, and the assignment was a simple stake out in Hawaii, on the beach.


	5. Give you all my bread

**Author's Note: It has been such a great feeling, seeing all of the alerts for those of you are adding this story to your favorites or alerts! Thank you!**

**I am juggling what feels like 200 projects right now, which is great. Of course, it has meant a lot of writing, and so updates are coming a little more slowly. **

**So thank you in advance for your patience!**

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Chapter 5: Give you all my bread

Natalia had never had a problem getting what she wanted or needed. As a young girl, she was petite and popular with boys, and she had a disarming nature that made girls lower their guard, too. Of course, she was also manipulative and well-trained, even then. When she was in the equivalent of middle school, one boy in particular came to mind.

His name was Anatoli; she never bothered learning his last name. He was not a boy that stood out – not particularly bright, on the smaller scale for his age, and he was by all accounts average. He was also friends with another young man who was the son of a well-known mobster. And it was this that made him interesting and valuable to Natasha, the young trainee of the Red Room.

They met on the street. She was 13, and he was 15; he found her hiding in an alley, as a group of young men ran by. She didn't say anything, and he put together the story that suited his hero-complex. She didn't make eye contact, and he didn't force her to.

He had waited patiently for her to acknowledge him; he waited patiently for her to take his outstretched hand. When she did, he held her slender fingers gingerly, as if they would break under his touch, and she had looked at him then, eyes upturned, shaded by thick lashes, cheeks smeared with grime, and a trembling lip.

She had waited in the alley way while he left to find her food. He returned with half a loaf of bread and a bit of cheese. He had broken it into pieces and fed them to her slowly. She ate them gratefully, tears rolling freely down at her cheeks. If she were completely honest with herself, not all of them were staged.

"Anatoli," he muttered, gesturing to his chest.

"Nadya," she whispered in response.

They ate their meal in silence, wrapped in the chilled darkness of the shadows cast by the brick buildings. He seemed comfortable on the streets, with the rats and the cold. He had sat close enough, so his body heat would wash over her. She knew he was breathing in the scent of her hair, despite the fact that she had stopped bathing a week prior to ensure her cover.

He left that night, and she made shelter in her hide-out that night. But she knew his territory, knew where he went and when, so the next day, it was easy for him to find her because she was there. He found her outside a grocer shining a man's shoes. When the man reached out to touch her hair, Anatoli pushed his hand away. The man proceeded to beat Anatoli, and Natalia – no, Nadya – had screamed and called for help.

Help came in the form of Anatoli's well-connected friend and his father's goons. The man apologized profusely, but when he was dragged away, Natalia knew what would happen. _Nadya_ was clueless, but Natalia knew exactly what would happen to him.

She had meat that night, but Anatoli did not eat any of it.

"Who was you friend," she whispered.

He hesitated, "Luka."

She only nodded, "You are lucky that you have such a good friend."

He had smiled at that, and returned the nod, "Yes. You do, too, though, Nadya."

She smiled, and they finished their meager meal in silence. When it got dark, he had asked where she lived, and she had responded by distracting him, so she could run away. She made a report to her superiors before going to bed.

During the next two weeks, she spent more time with Anatoli. She let him kiss her. She let him touch her breasts, and he never asked for more. He brought her food, and he offered her more; she always refused and returned to her hideout. Unless her superiors told her to accept his offer, she would continue to avoid his invitations.

At the end of the second week, Anatoli brought her to meet Luka.

Luka was not like Anatoli, not like Nadya. He was like Natalia; he was cold, calculating, and manipulative. When he met her, he kissed her; Anatoli's face betrayed his heartache, but he said nothing. Natalia hated Luka in that moment. For all her training, at that time, she still hated Luka.

But she didn't need to waste time on that because they had all met in his father's compound. Natalia had memorized the way in, the codes necessary for entry, and all of the information she had been sent to find. So if she had to kiss this manipulative young man who was so cruel to his friends, then so be it.

That night at dinner, Luka had "mistakenly" only asked for extra place at the table, and once again, Anatoli gave up his food for her.

The food was delicious, but it tasted bitter in her mouth and burned her throat.

The next day, those in charge had burned down the compound, kidnapped Luka and his father, and they dispatched of Anatoli. It was seen as a mark of generosity that they did not make Natalia kill him, but she had seen it all the same.

He was running from the carnage in the compound when they shot him down. He fell in the street, blood pooling under him and flames burning all around. When no one was looking, she had walked over to his body and looked at him for a long time. In his hand was a wad of cash, presumably stolen when he ran.

It was the only money she never took.

As a teenager, in her final days of the Red Room, one of the young recruits had latched onto her as a warped mother figure. To show her affection, she brought Natalia little trinkets, some hand made and some stolen. One time, she brought her chocolate, which was forbidden on the grounds.

Natalia turned her in, always the good soldier. The girl had been dispatched.

The two were only the first in what would be a long line of people who lost when they gave in to Black Widow, but they were the first, and it was their blood that Clint saw her trying to scrub from her hands in the dark of the night.

"Promise me something," she said.

"I'll try."

"Don't give me anything, and don't promise me things."

He only nodded.


	6. Don't want no other girl in my bed

**Author's Note: Okay, so I found a great movie on Netflix with Jeremy Renner called Neo Ned. His character was so deep, it's actually kind of hard not to let it interfere with this story. He is _such_ a good actor. Also, shout out to my hubby who is a World War II genius and helped me with the Eastern Front lingo from the Russian POV. Finally, this chapter kicked me in the ass; I am still not completely happy with it, but I think it conveys what I was going for, so I'm leaving it as is. Maybe at the end I'll put in the alternate chapter as bonus materials. :)**

Chapter 6: Don't want no other girl in my bed

It was very late or very early, depending on how you looked at it, and Clint and Natasha were bathed in the light of the television screen before them. It was like many other nights they had spent on missions, sometimes off; Natasha wore a pair of shorts and a tank top, Clint the same, his arm draped lazily around her shoulder his fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle of some local beer. This had become a tradition: settle in for the evening with a few brews, and watch a martial arts movie. This night it was Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

But truth be told, he was barely paying attention to the movie, instead intently focused on the story that Natasha was telling him.

"This man was so delusional, Clint, I just...he really believed that he was Joseph Stalin."

They both consciously ignored the backs of his fingers brushing against her shoulder, "Well, what did you do?"

She shrugged, looking away. He tilted his head, about to say something, but then she turned with a wicked smile, "I'm a little ashamed to say that I played with him."

He choked on her words, "No!"

Biting her bottom lip, she nodded, "Yes. Yeah, I did. I gave him a report on the Great Patriotic War."

Clint nodded, piecing together his history enough to know that Great Patriotic War was the Russian title for the Eastern Front – massive tank battles and all – and Hitler's fatal mistake in World War II.

Natasha continued, "I told him of our victory in Kursk, that the German line had broken, and they were scurrying back to Berlin."

He was laughing so hard tears were in his eyes, and he shook his head, finding it impossible to believe that his Natasha, the deadly Black Widow, could have actually done something like make a mad man believe his own story.

She held up her own bottle with an unsympathetic shrug, "He died a happy man."

He reached further around her shoulder, gesturing to toast, and she clinked her bottle against his before taking another sip. The silence lingered for a moment, both of them lost in their own memories. Natasha spoke first, "What about you?"

Clint looked down at her, an eyebrow raised, "Well, Tasha, I can't beat that one. I mean, how can you ask me to follow _that_?"

She shrugged, "You'll forever be in my shadow, Barton." She gave him a coy smile, and their eyes locked for a moment.

He grinned, took a breath and then spoke, "Okay. This one time, I was sent out for one of the top assassins in the world. And, to complete my mission, I trapped her by making her _think_ I had tripped a wire at her doorstep, but I had really planned the whole th-"

He was cut off when the pain of her pinching his side became a little more than he could take. When he had finally shut his mouth, she let go, "You are so full of shit."

He leaned closer, conspiratorially, "You'll never know."

She nudged him with her elbow, and he leaned back with a shrug, "Take it or leave it, Romanoff."

Silence fell over them again, and they went to actually watching the movie. It was winding down it seemed - the final, epic battle commencing. Clint watched, entranced, and Natasha settled in to admire the skill of the combatants. Jen, the young woman, fights Shu Lien, then escapes; Mu Bai follows through the bamboo forest. Then the fight between Fox and Jen – he felt Natasha tense slightly, and he knew without looking that she was focusing on their movements, imagining how her muscles would feel performing their same battle.

Mu Bai now lies, mortally wounded in the cave, Shu Lien tearfully pleading with him, "Let your soul rise to eternity with your last breath. Do not waste it on me."

"I have already wasted my whole life. I wanted to tell you with my last breath...I have always loved you."

Clint found himself taking a sharp inhale, as Mu Bai continued, "I would rather be a ghost drifting by your side, as a condemned soul, than enter heaven without you."

Natasha caught his breath, and leaned over, "You okay?"

He nodded, but he wasn't okay; he couldn't speak for a moment. Her hair brushed against his cheek, and he became very aware of the warmth her body was putting off. He became very aware of the skin under the backs of his fingers, her leg brushing against his leg. He cleared his throat, "What do you think about that?"

She looked up at him, "What?"

He gestured to the screen with his free hand, "Mu Bai renouncing his life's pursuit to profess his love for Shu Lien. What do you think about it? Did he make the right call?"

Natasha shrugged, "In terms of..."

Clint turned fully to her for the first time, pulling one leg up and leaning his weight on it, so he could face her directly, "On principle, Tasha, do you think he made the right decision there?"

She was a little surprised by his seriousness, it being so unlike him, so she turned to face him in kind, "Well, I have to look at it from a few angles, here. First of all, it's not my decision to make. If Mu Bai _felt_ that it was right to tell her, then he did what he knew to do; after so many years of training, he would have learned to trust himself. The next point is that, since he is dying now, he either has the clarity of his last moments, or he figures there is nothing to lose. However," and to emphasize her point, she spread her hands, "if he is being honest, and he truly would rather be a ghost with her, then I think he waited a little bit too long to act on his feelings."

Clint took all of this in, his mind a blur of memories and words.

"What do you think?"

He became aware of her words, and his eyes met hers. His expression was almost pained, his mouth agape, trying to put together something witty to respond with – something disarming and moderately sacrilegious. But for the life of him, all he could think about were the other countless nights they had spent just like this, missions where the only thing he had to hold onto was her, and the missions where he had been able to be more than just an assassin by saving her.

_He waited a little bit too long_, he also thought, on top of all the rest.

"I think," he began, carefully choosing his next words, "that to similarly discredit the time that they _did_ share is perhaps uncalled for. If they were both happy in their lives, I mean, that has to count for something. Further more, what exactly would he change? Does he regret never cultivating that love in terms of time and words, or does he regret the lack of the...the physical manifestation of love?"

"Physical manifestation meaning sex?" Natasha queried, an eyebrow raised.

He poked her shoulder with his index finger, "Not necessarily. The most intimate scene in this movie is when Mu Bai takes Shu Lien's hand," here he mirrored the action, taking Natasha's hand in his own, "and presses it to his cheek." He did this, too, her cool palm stretched over the stubble on his cheek.

He swallowed then, looking at her eyes, deep pools of so many lives lived in one body. Any number of things he would do to show her how he felt, but he held back, and in an effort to ease the tension, he just broke into a coy look, "Did we...did we just have a moment?" He gestured between the two.

She laughed, then, a jovial and throaty laugh that resounded in her chest. He laughed, too, and brought her knuckles to his lips, where he planted a soft kiss. She shook her head, taking her hand back and standing, swishing her bottle at him, "I'm empty. Want some more?"

"Absolutely," he murmured.


	7. All the streetlights know your name

**Author's Note: My blog has been keeping me busy.** **So, um, sorry. I was being totally good about updating, and then I sucked. :)** **But I appreciate all the favorites and alerts I've been seeing. Hooray! Also, this is short (sorry again), and I didn't edit before posting because it's like 1:30 in the morning, and I'm watching T2...so...forgive me?**

Chapter 7: All the streetlights, they know your name

Clint blinked quickly while his eyes adjusted, focusing on the picture that had just been thrust in front of his face. It was a picture of Natasha, stretched out over silken sheets, wearing shockingly little. He cleared his throat.

"What do you think?" she pulled the photos away and looked at him, "Do you think they're believable?"

He cleared his throat again, "Believable as...?"

She looked at him sternly, "Have you been listening? Natalie Rushman was a model in Japan. We're working on the background right now; these are the photos they want to upload, and I'm not sure if they are convincing."

He nodded, trying to put together words, "You look like...a...a model."

She smiled, "Good."

Trying to brush off the desire to ask for a copy of the photo, he spoke up again, "What's the assignment, uh, Natalie?"

She paused, knowing he would not be terribly pleased, "I am infiltrating Stark Industries, hoping to get in as Tony Stark's new assistant."

True to her expectations, he narrowed his eyes, sitting forward in his chair, "His new assistant? What?"

She turned away from him, "Fury didn't tell me the specifics, just that he's being considered for the Avengers Initiative. And he's apparently been a bit of a loose canon lately." When she finished she turned back to him.

Clint rolled his eyes, "Oh, geez. So now you have to go in there and...and...and seduce him?"

Natasha laughed at that, "I don't think I even have to seduce him. It's Tony Stark."

"Then what are the pictures for?"

"To make a name for myself," she winked and turned out of the room, calling behind her, "I leave in an hour!"

She had left the pictures in his hands. He looked through them all now, muttering, "Shit." It took a moment, but then his mind caught up with what she had said. He stood and went to the doorway, the photos scattering to the floor, as he followed her down the hall, "Nat! Wait!"

…*...*...*...

Natasha was idly listening to the conversation happening between Tony and Pepper - "You're Googling her, now?"

She smiled inwardly, knowing what he'll find.

"She modeled in Japan. Did you model in Japan?"

She filed that away in her mind to tell Clint later; she nodded at something that this fool in front of her was saying, and then he was punching at her – fool, indeed. She twisted his wrist, pulling him forward, and used the momentum created by his fall to help lean onto his weight, jump and wrap her legs around his neck, bringing him down to the mat with a thud.

"Oh, my god!" she heard Pepper shriek, as the two stood in reaction to her maneuver.

"She slipped," the buffoon remarked, picking himself and his self-respect off the floor.

...*...*...*...

That night, stationed in the apartment that SHIELD had provided for her, she picked up the phone and dialed. On the other end, there was a click, as the receiver was picked up.

"He bought it."

She could hear Clint's smile on the other end, "How wouldn't he?"

"I thought you would like to know that the pictures were a success."

He laughed, "Uh, yeah, I know."

She was gazing outside the window, out at the water. At his words, she frowned and turned back into the room, "What? How?"

She heard clicking on the other side of the phone, "You mean you really don't know?"

"Clint, what is going on?"

He laughed. He laughed for longer than she liked, but when he recovered, he spoke, "Natalie Rushman is the highest search term right now. It seems that it started in Stark Industries, and it's been sweeping out from there."

For the first time in recent memory, Natasha was speechless. Her knees felt a little weak, probably from being overtired, she told herself, and she sank onto the edge of the bed.

"Nat? You there?"

It took a few seconds for his question to register, "Yes."

"Did you hear what I said?"

"You're joking..." it was a plea, more than a question, or a statement.

"Look for yourself, if you want."

This set her into action. She leaned her head against her shoulder, holding the phone in place, while she reached out for her laptop. Opening it, she blindly keyed in her password and waited. When the computer was up and running, she opened a program labeled SHIELD, keying in a few commands. Clint waited patiently on the other side for her to find the information she was looking for. A few more clicks and she had it.

Her jaw dropped, and she was grateful to be sitting down already, "Oh my...Clint..."

"Yeah. Natalie Rushman is more popular than the Pamela Anderson sex tape. A whole bunch of young men, and probably old, are downloading those photos as we speak and-"

"Shut up."

"Well, it's a little unexpected, admittedly."

"_Unexpected?_ I would say that's an understatement."

"I told you the pictures were good."

...*...*...*...

Natasha stood at a newsstand on the corner, a cup of coffee halfway to her lips, when a man in his twenties approached. He had short hair and a smile that said he was carrying an ego the size of China when he stopped at her shoulder, feigning interest in a magazine across her chest. She rolled her eyes at him dismissively.

"Hey," he said, as if surprised to find her standing there, "aren't you Natalie Rushman?"


	8. In the moonlight, don't have no shame

**Author's Note: I have changed the summary to reflect what this has really turned out to be. Yes, I had originally intended to write a story with some semblance of a plot. And I think we can all agree that you have to squint _pretty_ hard to see anything resembling a plot. So let's call a spade a spade, and I'll just admit this is really just a bunch of one-shots that go in sequential order. :) No shame in the truth! **

**Also, we are nearing the end of the song! So, um, hopefully this doesn't crumble in my hands before then. :) again**

Chapter 8: Out in the moonlight, don't you feel no shame

Tony Stark watched the two women walk out, his eyes unconsciously watching the swish of each of their hips, impressed. Next to him, Happy cleared his throat, "Yeah, she had, uh-"

"Save it. You got beat up by a girl. It's okay," he shrugged, "It happens."

"I was distracted."

"Yeah, see, you should have gone with that the first time," Tony added, turning, "You know what? I think I'm done training for now."

"But-"

"I'll see you later. I'll drive myself."

"Well, you have to drive yourself now because I work for Stark Industries, and-"

"I still pay you. Still my name on the company-"

"But I work for Pepper now, and-"

"And I'm driving myself anyway, so what's the problem?" he lifted his hands, questioning, "What's the problem?"

And with that, Tony turned and walked back to the showers, dismissing anything else Happy might have added. He made quick work of showering and dressing into more work-appropriate clothing before making his way downstairs and into his workshop. Without a company to run, no one could yell at him for spending so much time here anymore.

"Jarvis," he called.

"Sir."

"I need you to find out some information for me. I need to know more about this Natalie Rushman from legal."

"Sir, Ms. Potts has already scheduled meetings with-"

"Not you, too. Find out about her. What's the big deal? I'm just curious; I'm a curious guy, you know, I'm a scientist, so just..." he trailed off, as he began to work again. Jarvis did as he was told, and Tony listened intently to the information that he found.

...*...*...*...

"I told you the pictures were good."

"Actually, I believe you never answered that question, and-" Natasha stopped short, peering out the window, she spotted something unexpected and unusual.

"Ah. Clint. I will have to call you back."

She pressed the off button and tossed the phone onto the bed, thinking quickly. She moved into her closet, reemerging in a two-piece swimsuit. She checked the security measures she had in place, then slipped out of the apartment.

She was on her way down the back hallway, about to exit, when she heard his voice behind her.

"Natalie," Tony called from the front of the building, "Natalie Rushman, right?"

Natasha put on a confused look and turned to him, "Yes? Oh! Yes, Mr. Stark," she smiled with recognition.

"Huh, well, this is certainly unexpected. Were you...on your way somewhere? Dressed like that?"

She motioned vaguely to the door behind her, "The pool."

"Oh! I didn't realize you have a pool here. That's nice. I must be paying you well."

Natasha just gave him a kind of awkward smile in response and shrugged, "Yes, I guess so. Well..." she trailed off, her hand on the bar of the door.

They stood there somewhat awkwardly for a moment, so she opened the door and stepped through, holding it open slightly as a silent invitation for him to join her, should he choose. She was not surprised when, with a little surprised lift of his shoulders, Tony strode forward, catching the door in his hand and stepping through. He scanned the pool, "This is nice."

She simply nodded, while she found a towel and draped it over a chair. Then, ignoring him, she dove lithely into the deep end. She came up and pushed the wet tendrils out of her face while treading water and giving him a questioning look, "What are you doing here, Mr. Stark?"

He opened his mouth, realizing just then that he had not thought of a reasonable cover story, "Oh, well, uh, Natalie – is it okay if I call you Natalie?"

She simply nodded, swimming to the edge of the pool and leaning over the cement on her folded arms.

"Okay. Natalie. Here's the thing, with Pepper as the CEO now – Pepper, you know, is Ms. Potts – the thing is, I need a new assistant."

Tony Stark spoke so much that Natasha had found it best just to wait patiently for him to finish. He would fill the silence with incessant chatter, but he would dominate a conversation anyway, so she just bore into him with her green (for this mission) eyes.

"I know Pepper has some candidates that she thinks would work, but she's already taking over the company, and I really don't have the time to wait. We're going to Monaco...sometime...I need someone now. Yesterday, really. I want you."

At this, she raised an eyebrow.

"To be my assistant. I want you to be my assistant, is what I was saying."

In answer, she dipped back under the water.

"Okay. That wasn't really the answer I was expecting." He cleared his throat and stood, walking to the edge of the pool. He watched as Natalie broke the surface once more, the moonlight reflecting off of the droplets of water that clung, well, everywhere. A brief image of using his tongue to lick some of those off flashed in his mind. He cleared his throat again, "So...what do you say?"

She swam to the edge of the pool and climbed out, reaching for a towel and patting her hair dry. It didn't do much. Rivulets of water streamed down from the red locks, creating tiny tracks across her skin, down between her breasts, down her flat abs, and falling at her hips. Tiny droplets started to create a pool at her feet. She smiled at him.

He blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

She shook her head slightly, indicating that she had not spoken.

"I, I gotta be honest here, uh, Natalie. I'm not used to people not saying _anything_ when I talk to them. I mean, I know I tend to talk over people, or at least it seems that I do, but to not get any answer, it's a little confusing. A little disconcerting, really. I don't know what you're thinking – are you going to say yes, or are you going to, I don't know, call the cops? Which I guess would be silly because, you know, I am Iron Man, and -"

She had crossed the distance between them and silenced him with a slender finger pressed against his lips. He closed them slowly, an eyebrow raised in question, his hands shoved in his pockets to avoid reaching out and giving reason for that lawsuit that Pepper had suggested.

"Mr. Stark, I accept your job offer. When would you like me to begin providing my services?"

He coughed and stepped back involuntarily, a strange feeling overcoming him, almost like he were prey under the watchful eye of a very dangerous predator, "Well, as soon as possible, really. I was thinking maybe even tonight. Tomorrow, I guess, would work, too, if you're busy tonight. But I need to know when I'm supposed to leave for Monaco-"

"Tuesday," she said in a tone just above a whisper.

"See, there. I knew you were perfect for the job. You already know my schedule. How...do you know my schedule?"

She flashed another smile, "The legal department always knows where you're going, so we can ensure we are prepared should any issues arise."

He gave her an innocent look, gesturing to his chest, "I have to say that I'm shocked that, uh, that my own company doesn't trust me."

She gave him a sympathetic look, as she wrapped herself in a towel and squeezed her hair, "Ms. Potts sends them, usually."

"Pepper sends my schedule to legal?"

Natasha shrugged, "Most of it. I'm sure she leaves some things out..." She looked him in the eyes, then let her gaze drop with a subtle shrug.

Tony just nodded dumbly at that, "Well, uh, Natalie. I obviously interrupted your swim. That is awfully rude of me. I apologize. I should let you get back to your evening. I just wanted to come by and, like I said, I wanted to offer you that job." He looked down at her, a little surprised to see her so close to him.

She gave him a nod, "Then I will begin working under you tomorrow."

With that, she sidestepped him and walked to the door. He watched her, his mouth gaping like a school boy, and he was a little surprised that any woman could still shock him this way. Over her shoulder, she called, "There's a gate opposite the pool that leads back to the courtyard. It's the quickest way to the parking lot."

And then she disappeared through the door and down the hallway. He cleared his throat and shook his head, "Pepper is going to kill me," he muttered, making his way through the gate. He was a little disappointed she hadn't offered to start tonight, but given that they would soon be in a boss-employee relationship, maybe that wasn't for the best, he told himself.

Inside, Natasha made it to her apartment, into her bedroom, and retrieved her phone from the bed. She sighed and scrolled through the phone, selecting another number. She lifted the receiver to her ear, and after a moment, spoke into it. "I'm in," she stated simply, then ended the call.

Looking at the time, then back at her phone, she sighed, and dropped it onto the nightstand before walking into her bathroom and turning on the shower. She had to think about how she would break this news to Clint – after all, the bet was that it would take at least three days to get in. But he had rarely won a bet against her; surely by now he was expecting to lose.

Once out of the shower, she picked up the phone once more and dialed again.

"I was starting to wonder," came his voice from the other end.

"I start tomorrow. Stark came here to offer me the job."

"He came to your apartment? What did you do?"

She looked out the window and responded with a smile, "I went for a swim."

She could hear his smile on the other end, "Natalie Rushman, have you no shame?"

All she could do was laugh.


	9. Don't you worry, you little flame

**Author's Note: Greetings. So I started a job, and that means that I am at 4 am most mornings. Sure I get home early, but I've been quite busy with work, crafts, and my blog. I am apologizing for the rather lengthy delay in posts here, in other words. And then I watched the Avengers again, and I had to stop and write about _all_ of the characters (i.e. "Hi, my name is"). Again, I apologize, and this one was difficult to write. I sat on it for a long time, and I'm still not pleased, but I am tired of looking at it. :)**

**Thanks for favorites/alerts/comments.**

Chapter 9: Oh don't you worry, you little flame

As a highly skilled assassin and spy, Natasha had seen her fair share of horrors and been in situations for which stressful was a largely inaccurate description. Yet she found that she was grinding her teeth, the longer she worked for Tony Stark. All – she looked at her calendar – three days of it.

She sighed and leaned her head back in the chair where she sat, waiting with Pepper for Tony to finish speaking to the lunatic in the holding cell. Earlier she had excused herself for a moment to call in and report on the incident in Monaco; she had even listened patiently while Fury lived up to his name, ripping into her about how she should be able to control him. She realized then that perhaps Fury had never actually spent any time with Stark.

But now she was just dealing with the ire coming off of Pepper in waves. She took a deep breath, wishing they could sit closer, so she could hear what was going on in that cell. Natasha sat a bit straighter in the chair when the door at the end of the hall opened, and Tony strode out. He walked with a sense of purpose, but she saw a shadow of concern in the corners of his eyes. He passed them both, and Natasha heard the words he was muttering, "Vanko."

"Natalie," Pepper started, "have Happy bring the car around."

"Right away, Ms. Potts," she gave a perfunctory nod. Things were strained, to say the very least, since Tony had hired her without Pepper's consent. Being caught off guard when Tony ran off to drive his own Formula 1 car had not helped matters. Things had really only gone downhill from there. Natasha had had to disappear during the attack to call SHIELD in case backup was needed, and that hole had gotten just a little bit deeper. In answer, Natasha was working double time to impress them both.

The car ride to the plane was unpleasant. Once on the flight, Natasha kept to herself, throwing herself into research. Two things were vying for the front seat in her mind: Vanko and palladium. She needed answers, so she could make a more thorough report, and she had a feeling that one or both of them would be helping in her decision regarding the Avengers initiative.

It wasn't looking good. Natasha could see the marks of the palladium poisoning on his chest as she neared the room. When she entered, however, she feigned ignorance, "Do you know which watch you want to wear tonight, Mr. Stark?"

He startled and began buttoning his shirt, "I'll take a look."

She nodded and began making him a martini, giving him the lead on opening up to her. It always happened; it didn't matter who it was – they would always tell her what she needed to hear.

"We should cancel the party, huh?"

That was a bit of a surprise. She turned, "Probably."

"Yeah. Cause it's, um-"

"Ill-timed," she finished for him.

"Right. It sends the wrong message."

"Inappropriate," she murmured, as she approached him. Their fingers touched briefly when she handed the martini glass to him, "Is that dirty enough for you?"

He took a breath, "Uh...gold face with brown band. The Jaeger. I'll give that a look. Bring them over here."

She marched back to the box while he took a seat and carried it over. For all of his arrogance, he could be a gentleman sometimes, she mused, as he reached, "I'll take that. Why don't you, um-"

At his gesture, she propped herself on the chair's arm with a small smile. He returned it, while they shared a quiet moment, and she began to dab makeup on his face gently.

"I gotta say; it's hard to get a read on you. Where are you from?"

Natasha felt that she was slipping, if he was asking her questions. Of course she knew what he meant, but as she worked carefully to cover the bruising on his face, she simply replied, "Legal."

He grimaced, unhappy with her perfunctory answer, but he moved on quickly, as usual, "Can I ask you a question -hypothetically? Bit odd...if this was your last...birthday party you were ever gonna have, how would you celebrate it?" He asked the question without looking at her, rubbing his eyes and pinching his nose, and she knew that he was having an intense internal struggle.

She found herself feeling empathetic for him, and so she gave him a real answer, "I would do whatever I wanted to do. With whoever I wanted to do it with."

It was the truth. And that was why she took her leave at that time, abruptly standing and walking out.

Natasha walked into their conversation; when there was a pause in their speaking, she approached, "We've secured the perimeter, Director, but I don't think we should hold it for much longer."

She ignored Tony's look of shock, wearing the same polite smile that she always did.

"You're...fired..." he muttered.

Another smile, "That's not for you to decide."

While Fury introduced her, Tony met her eyes and held them until he felt it necessary to speak again. She still just smiled at him, genuinely amused by both Tony and Fury; the battle of wits was as intense and fast as a round of ping-pong, she mused.

Fury brought out of her brief reverie, "...the question is what do _you _need from us?"

At the turn in the conversation, she stood to retrieve the lithium-dioxide syringe, and at Fury's command, "Punch it," she injected it into Tony's neck, pressing a hand to his cheek to bend his neck, checking the marks, and turning his head toward her to check the other side. Content with her findings, she returned to her seat next to Fury.

She had vaguely heard him mention the Southwest region, and her mind wandered again – _do whatever I want with whoever I wanted to do it with –_ until it was time to move again.

Tony was annoyed; he was livid. He was shocked. Natalie – no, he reminded himself, Natasha – had played him like a fiddle, every note tuned to perfection, so that he would let her in. Being attracted to a woman and talking perhaps more than he should was nothing new to him, of course, but this feeling of being violated was. At least, being violated and not enjoying it was new.

It did briefly occur to him that perhaps this was what it felt like to be on the other side of Tony most of the time: outwitted and shockingly alone come the morning. He stamped down that feeling quickly. The videos of his father didn't help. They only served to leave an even more bitter taste in his mouth, and he found himself mentally chiding SHIELD for bringing this to his attention. But he was feeling better; he had to hand it to them.

Tony's new lease on life was what led him to Stark Industries in the first place, to approach Pepper and apologize, try to explain what was going on. He wasn't cured, he reminded himself, so he needed to make amends, be honest with her.

It didn't go quite the way he expected, and he was already flustered when Happy came in with Natasha – no, he reminded himself, Natalie. He was flustered and all of those other negative emotions, so he couldn't hold his tongue.

"Natalie, how are you blending in here? It is Natalie, isn't it?"

The glare that she shot him felt uncomfortably close to being stabbed, but he felt a little internal victory dance at it just the same. He gave her an innocent smile, and he could feel her ire washing over him. He would have laughed, but he wasn't stupid. He watched with some detachment and a little twinge of sadness as Pepper prepared to leave and asked "Natalie" to arrange the removal of Tony's things from the office.

He hadn't told Pepper anything, and he actually resented the fact that _Natasha_ knew about it and didn't say anything, either.

"I'm surprised you can keep your mouth shut," she snapped, landing the first blow.

He turned on her, "God, you're good. You are _mind blowingly_ good at this. How do you do it? You're a triple imposter. I've never seen anything like it. Is there anything real about you? Do you even speak Latin?"

She bristled at his words, glared at him, and muttered something that he didn't understand; it could have been Latin, or it could have been Farsi for all he knew.

"Which means?"

She began to walk around him toward the door, but he wasn't about to let her have the last word...that wasn't asking for meaning, "Wait, what did you just say?"

At the door, her fingers wrapped around the handle, she glared at him again, "It means you can either drive yourself home, or I can have you collected." The door slammed shut behind her.

He felt a little better about things, then. Still, he felt a raging fire just beneath the surface, which sent the strawberries flying into the garbage can.

As it turned out, Tony's best work came out of being angry.


	10. I'm feeling lucky

**Author's Note: Sorry for the delay! I really am. This one was hard to peg down. I was disappointed in myself that my first thought at this line _wasn't_ Happy. But whatevs. I do hope you enjoy, and I do so appreciate all of the favorites/alerts/reviews that I have gotten. Two more chapters after this...maybe three. "Chapters"...more like short stories. :)**

Chapter 10: Cause I'm Feeling Lucky

There are usually not a lot of perks to being a millionaire...no..._billionaire_'s driver. Most of the time, it means you pretend not to exist while you drive the lucky guy or gal to whatever unabashedly awesome event they have next. Even when they are going somewhere for business, it is guaranteed to be at least 100 times better than what you will be doing, which is waiting by the limo eating a shitty, two-dollar hotdog from a vendor after having to scrape together whatever change you have left from your measly paycheck.

_Usually_.

But Happy wasn't exactly usual because he worked for the not exactly usual Tony Stark. He had all the perks; he didn't (always) have to wait at the car while Tony went in to joy ride through life. Often he went along for the ride – literally and metaphorically. For instance, there was the time that Tony had crashed a party at the Playboy Mansion; it's not that Tony wasn't invited, either. Tony had declined the invite and then shown up anyway, on a whim. At the door, he had slapped Happy on the shoulder and told the beefy, humorless security guard that he was Tony's "plus one." The security guard had not looked amused, but no one refused Tony entrance anywhere, or at least rarely, because where Tony went, billions of dollars followed.

That night had been, well, he had signed a waiver by the time he left, but suffice it to say the bunnies lived up to their name, and Happy lived up to his.

Despite the vast difference in wealth between them, Tony had always treated Happy like an equal. Happy had struggled at first with accepting a few of the gifts that Tony gave, or not paying his own way, but he made peace with it rather quickly. For one thing, arguing with Tony was impossible. For the other, if Happy had tried to keep up with the spending, he would need a bail out similar to the major financial institutions.

So, yeah, all things considered, Happy considered himself one lucky sonofabitch.

All of these things were amazing, and he was eternally grateful. But then Tony pulled shit like this. As the taught goddess of, what was her name?, Natalie stepped into the ring with him, among the fantasies involving her, there were a few floating around with Tony in varying degrees of pain. He gulped.

He knew better than to pull a Tony; he really did. But in the presence of this woman who was staring at him with big, green eyes – they were better than eyes – he could think of no other recourse.

"You ever box before?"

She almost rolled her eyes, and he knew that he had chosen the wrong move, but he had to commit now.

"I have, yes," she said impatiently, a little breathy, but she offered him a tight smile.

"What? Tae-Bo? Booty Boot Camp? Crunch?" Honestly he would kick himself right now, even.

She didn't respond, just cleared her throat, but they were both saved by Tony calling out, "How do I spell your name, Natalie?"

She turned, "R-u-s-h-m-a-n."

He took his opportunity to move a little closer, as she was turned away, a slight smile on his lips, "Rule number one, never take your eye off your opponent." At that, he gave a very gentle swipe toward her.

And then the world, his life even, flashed before his eyes. He felt himself pulled forward, and he had a moment of awe and, yeah, a little arousal, as her legs swung up and wrapped around his neck. He felt that, if he had to die now, this wasn't a bad way to go. But then he was on his back, she had his arm in a vice grip, and then she stepped away when Pepper shouted.

He stood, admittedly a little shakily, and tried desperately to cover himself, "She, uh, slipped."

Tony was not buying it, "Looked like a TKO to me."

Happy watched idly while they completed the paperwork to sign control of the company over to Pepper. There was a vague sense of sadness, as Happy realized that, as an employee of Stark Industries, he would now be driving Pepper. No more Playboy mansion parties. No more 3am drives around with a perky blonde rubbing him in all the right places. No more plane rides catered by half-naked attendants. Basically, a lot fewer naked women.

Who was he kidding? Tony would still expect him to drive.

This memory, even more than the memories since then – Pepper's anger at Tony for hiring the beautiful woman, for instance – was the one that came to mind when Natalie came down to the car.

"Get in the car. Take me the Hammer Industries."

He noticed she was walking differently, then she turned on him, "Fine. Then you want me to drive?"

There went his pride, "No! I'm driving. Get in the car!"

He got in angry and not entirely sure why. The world seemed to be blowing up around them, and now she wanted to leave? He wasn't even sure what was going on there; people had just started running out screaming. He had been, well, standing by the car eating a hot dog. Guess things weren't as awesome without Tony, after all.

He whipped around a corner, vaguely aware that his passenger was speaking.

"When we arrive, I need you to watch the perimeter. I'm going to enter the facility and take out the target."

The first thing he noticed was that she was speaking strangely – talking about perimeters, facilities, and...and then he noticed that she had unzipped her dress.

_Holy shit_, he thought,_ is she...oh my god, yeah, she is taking her dress off! Look at her bra...I would love to just bury my head in there and-_

Beeeeeep!

His attention whipped back to the road, and he swerved to avoid hitting the oncoming traffic.

Her voice was icy cold and a little scary, "Watch the road."

He just nodded, "I got it."

Happy thought about clearing his throat, but then he decided it was a little too late for that. And the view had been worth it. Well worth it.

Not long after, he was screeching to a halt outside of Hammer Industries. She peeled out of the car, wearing...something, "Stay in the car!"

He got out and walked around the front, feeling indignant that she, also hired help, would assume to tell him what to do. He was also Tony's friend. He _did not_ stand by the car, "I'm not staying in the car!"

"I said stay in the car," she repeated, this time through gritted teeth. She looked mad. She looked dangerous. She looked amazing curvy in that cat suit, especially when she also looked mad and dangerous.

All he could muster was, "What are you wearing?"

Though he wasn't entirely sure what was going on, it seemed serious, so he went about inspecting the perimeter, as she had requested (okay, told him) earlier. The adrenaline was pumping through him. Something about her new look, the way she was talking, well, things started to click into place, and he wondered idly if he wasn't in the middle of some freaky spy shit. Which would be _awesome_. Maybe when it was all over with, he'd be able to, uh, garner some appreciation for being the hero of the hour.

"Look, I'm not letting you go in there alone."

"You wanna help? Keep the car running."

"Okay," he muttered, and then skipped in ahead of her. A guard met them at the door, and he rushed forward to meet him. Happy got the first punch in, but the guard was no amateur, and he got in a solid blow. Happy blocked most of it, but he knew he would be sore the next day.

He blocked another blow and threw his vicious right hook at the man's head. It snapped back, but the guy came back with a vengeance. He grabbed Happy's arm, pulling it awkwardly behind him, then began punching him in the gut. The wind was knocked out of him, but he used the momentum of being hit to lean on the guy. When he was in close enough, he bit the man's ear – mixed martial arts, right? - and when he started to scream, he threw another hook. Then a jab. And finally, as the man leaned forward, he finished him with an uppercut. The man fell back onto the hard floor, unconscious, or Happy to hope for the poor bastard's sake.

A grin spread over his features. He knew he would be able to help Natalie; he looked up, "I got him!"

And then he features fell, as his eyes fell upon the piles of guards that had once been the hallway. She had gone through no less than 7 guys, probably more, while he had fought the man at the front door. He felt a little bit of fear creep into his gut. And a little bit of arousal, too. Maybe he would just stand here for a minute, cool down, and then find out where she had gone. But it was mostly fear.

By the time he made it to the little computer room where she was hacking into the system and saving the day, he couldn't really say he was surprised anymore. Still impressed. Still mostly turned on. But not surprised.

He also wasn't surprised, but obviously disappointed, when her response to his advances after the fact were less than inviting. Something along the lines of, "not in a million years," except more colorful, poetic, and sexy.

Still, he had seen her taking that dress off, and that would stay with him til the day he died.


	11. I'm feeling mean

**Author's Note: I will only briefly acknowledge that it has been a small eternity since I've last updated, and while I do apologize for those of you who have favorites/alerted this story, I must say that the world outside my windows has been far too interesting lately! Also, I didn't realize how much my job would sap my energy. Bah. Anyway. In light of DC pairing Superman and Wonder Woman now, I had a sudden spark of creativity, and I thought my first order of business should be to finish this! Thus...we return.**

Chapter 11: I'm Feeling Mean

Loki didn't mind standing in the cell, not knowing what he knew and planning what he had planned. In a game of chess, you never fret over being trapped if you know that your own is so much more delightful and dangerous. As far as the chess analogy was concerned, Loki was merely a pawn, and in their desperate attempts to trap him, SHIELD had negated to notice the Rook moving in for -

The door behind him slid open.

He was mildly surprised to notice the Black Widow standing there. He was familiar with her, of course, and not just through what he'd gleaned using Barton as a tool. He had already spent some time learning about SHIELD before ever freeing Hawkeye, and Natasha Romanoff, codename Black Widow, was peppered all over those documents, usually followed up with a body count. There were also the accounts of her peerless abilities at interrogation, an uncanny knack for getting anything she wanted from people.

He scoffed internally; he wasn't _mere_ people. He was of Asgard – a _god_ – what could she possibly think to do to trick _him_, the Trickster? He would be angry, were he not so amused. Well, perhaps he was a bit angry.

Only then, his anger fueling him silently, did he turn, "Not many people can sneak up on me."

The assassin looked unfazed, "But you figured I'd come."

"After. After all the tortures Fury can concoct, you would appear...as a friend – as a balm – and I would cooperate." He spread his hands in an effort to show he would have bowed out.

She ignored all this, moving right on to her true purpose, "I want to know what you've done with Agent Barton."

This did surprise him. He had not expected her to be so upfront, though he knew from Hawkeye that this was her normal way, it did not fit in her usual bag of interrogation tricks. He bristled slightly, angry that she was not quivering before him, not using her best efforts, so he would play his own game with her, "I would say I've expanded his mind."

She stepped forward, "And once you've won – once you're king of the mountain? What happens to his mind?"

Something unexpected she had given him now, something he could play with. He smiled cruelly, finding the point that could cause damage, "Oh! Is this _love_, Agent Romanoff?"

"Love is for children – I owe him a debt."

He didn't buy it; she was not as skilled as the reports made her out to be. This would be fun; this _would_ be a balm, a happy distraction while he waited for his own trap to snap shut around these infants.

She was waiting.

"Tell me," he offered, walking over to the cold bench and taking a seat, as if to hear council from his throne.

She sighed, an ineffective move to show that she was simply bored, and she mirrored his actions, "Before I worked for SHIELD...I made a name for myself. I have a very specific skill set. I didn't care who I used it for...or on."

He was already bored. His mind was already working on how best to twist the knife in this mortal's soul, how to watch her tremble before him, knowing that there was no way to win. _This_ was his anger in its true form, his trickery, his ire.

She was continuing, "I got on SHIELD's radar in a bad way. Agent Barton was sent to kill me. He made a different call."

Her show of pragmatism was well-played and would have worked on a lesser being, "And what will you do if I vow to spare him?"

Her look was coy, assuming she already knew his answer, "Not let you out-"

Now he had his chance; he was excited at the prospect, a small revenge on the group that saw him as lesser than he was, "Oh ho, but I like this! Your _world_ in the balance, and you bargain for one man?"

Still attempting to avoid the obvious, she crossed her arms, "Regimes fall every day. I tend not to weep over that; I'm Russian...or was..."

He had to admit the little "was" on the end was a nice touch, but he was so close to getting what he wanted, "And what are you now?"

She stood again, "It's really not that complicated. I have red in my ledger. I'd like to wipe it out."

Ah ha! Here it was – the soft underbelly that he could attack.

"Can you? Can you wipe out _that much_ red? Drakov's daughter, Sao Paulo, the hospital fire?"

Her eyes widened at the very truncated list of her sins, and a cruel smile began to grace his lips, as he continued landing the blows, "Barton's told me everything. Your ledger is _dripping_, it's gushing red, and you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will _change_ anything?" He had stood and was now walking to the glass to get closer to her, to see the crushing defeat in her eyes as he completed his verbal assault, "This is the basest sentimentality. This is a child at prayer. _Pathetic_. You lie – and kill – in the service of liars and killers; you pretend to be separate, to have your own code, something to separate you from the horrors, but they are a part of you, and they will _never_ go away!"

At this, he slammed his fist against the glass, for which he was rewarded with an involuntarily jump, the look in her eyes one of fear, anger, anguish, even. He reveled in it, "No...I won't touch Barton."

A glimmer of hope shone – as he expected. Always give them a slight ray of hope before dashing them again, "Not until I make him _kill_ you – slowly, intimately, in every way he knows your fear. And when he wakes, he will have just enough time to see the work he's done, and when he _screams_, I'll break his skull!"

She turned from him, hands flying to her face, tears brimming in her eyes. The victory was sweet.

"_This_ is my bargain, you mewling quim!"

Her shoulders shook slightly, her hair swishing as she frantically shook her head, "You're...a _monster_."

She had said it quietly, and it brought another smile to his lips. He was pleased; he felt better, and seeing as she was crushed under his heel, he let it slip, just to land another blow, "Oh no. _You_ brought the monster."

Natasha could have just run out. She could have simply continued on with her act, let him think that he had won this round. But she could be mean, too, and after his obvious attacks, attempts to bring her to her knees, she was not about to give him the satisfaction. He was set up perfectly, standing on his little pedestal.

_Time to tip it over,_ she thought.

Her shoulders straightened, and she turned, head tilted in thought, "Huh. So...Banner? That's your play?"

Loki's look of cruel triumph faded to confusion, "What?"

She ignored him, pressing a finger to the comm unit to speak, "Loki means to unleash the Hulk. Keep Banner in the lab; I'm on my way. Send Thor as well."

Loki paced in his cage, following her around. She could feel his eyes boring into her, so she turned and gave a slight bow, "Thank you for your cooperation."

_Two can play that game, you spiteful little ass._


	12. Keeps me hungry, keeps me lean

**Author's Note: Nothing like going back to the movies to watch the Avengers to get the kick in the pants to finish a fanfic. Oooh. This one is short. Sorry about that. I really struggled with how to write this chapter to set it up for the next while still using the lyrics as my guide. **

**As always, thanks for reviews/favorites/alerts. Audience = I am not just shouting at the skies.**

Chapter 12: Keeps me hungry, keeps me lean

There was nothing but the mission – one initiative, then the next.

The engine was down. He knew, because he knew, that they would be sending someone out to fix the the engine, if it were even possible. He didn't leave enough for anyone to approach at this altitude. That had been the order.

One wasn't enough, though. Three engines could still keep the bird in the air, and he had lost the element of surprise. Well, at least outside.

He barked orders, like he always did, and he marched through the halls of the Helecarrier, also a common action. The cannon fodder went to the bridge, taking shots like they were meant to, while he set up a floor above. Fury was not an idiot, but even he didn't realize that it was all a ruse until it was too late. And by then, the arrow was in the air, and the computers were scrambled.

The carrier tilted sharply, as a second engine sputtered out. He kept his balance, since he was prepared for the shift.

The carrier had stabilized not long after, so he continued on to Plan B or C or whatever it was. There was nothing but the mission, and it had been compromised.

Halfway there, he tensed, knowing that he was being pursued, hunted. He gathered his wits and turned around. Something deep, deep inside said her name – _Natasha_ – but then the larger part of him could only think _mission_.

And then there were no words, only actions. She was coming at him with the ferocity of fear, but he wasn't sure why. Something was wrong about that. She was not one to be afraid of a fight. He knew this; it was cataloged, though he wasn't sure why.

The fight was desperate and fast; he was hungry to get on with the mission. She seemed adamant about something, too. The pain of her biting his arm finally outdid his grip, and then the floor was rushing up to meet him. Oh, wait, not the floor – that was a metal bar. Something sharp flashed behind his eyes; there was pain, and then there was confusion. It felt like all of the words in his mind were jumbled for a moment: _mitashow._

There was only the mission. And suddenly that was gone. He was falling through some void of the unknown, and there was a lot of unease building. There was only..._there was only_...

There was no mission. And with it quickly dissipating from his mental grasp, he felt frantic. At first his agitation came from being unable to fulfill the mission, which would later be the most disturbing part of this memory. But as things started to come together again, he was much more horrified by what had just been happening – how he had ended up on the floor and whose legs those were going on up into forever.

He looked up at her, the fog flooding in and then clearing out just as fast, "Tasha?"

The look in her eyes made him sick. She looked afraid, concerned, confused. He wanted to help – _needed_ to. Instead, her fist met his face, and the world went black.

He supposed, as the aftermath of Loki's little jaunt to Earth for the Tesseract, that the moment would be as vivid in his mind as some of his more unpalatable missions, the ones that left him feeling a little empty inside. The ones that left him with only one goal in mind: find Natasha and get distracted until he could process everything.


	13. Sharp like a blade and cold like a knife

**Author's Note: Well...I had a request to continue, and something about that gave me the inspiration I needed for the last few bits here. For some reason the last lines of the song made me lose a lot of focus. I don't know if this is what I envisioned when I began this project, but the fact that people like it is a good sign, no? Thanks for all the support again!**

**PS: If anyone who is reading does NaNo, please look me up – we can be writing buddies. Samgrillo42.**

**PPS: Last chapter is next. Wind down with the battle or add to the med bay scene? Just to be clear, the second option would come with some R-rated action. Thoughts?**

Chapter 13: I'm sharp like a blade and cold like a knife

Natasha had felt stretched before, her limits having been tested in every way imaginable more times than she cared to count. Her training had been specifically designed to push her limits at every opportunity, and in the field that had been necessary because the world was harsh and unforgiving.

This was different.

The Hulk was not anything she had ever even dreamed of, not in her worst nightmares. Her body wouldn't stop shaking, her mind playing over and over again the chase that she had just barely escaped with her life. She wondered idly how Thor was holding up against the horror that was Bruce Banner's rage.

The world was falling down around her; it was the worst time for this to be happening to her, but she couldn't focus. Emotions were suddenly coming into play; ninety-nine percent of the time, in a life-and-death situation like this, she kept them to an absolute minimum. Now here they were, rushing to the surface with such intensity that she couldn't move. The immense, primal fear caused by seeing Hulk had sent all of those pent-up feelings flooding to the surface.

She mused that it must be like feeding a starving person a feast.

Her breath struggled to be effective in her lungs, her eyes not focusing on anything in particular.

Then Fury's voice came over like a single chime, high above the dissonance, a pierce into the chaos of her confusion – Barton. Clint.

"I copy," she spoke slowly, and stood much faster than she had intended, determined to find her partner, to bring something back under her control.

Natasha made her way toward the detention level where Fury had mentioned the rogue agent – no, she corrected herself, her partner – was headed. She kept her steps light, and with the sirens and smoke and confusion all around, it was not difficult to stay unnoticed.

Clint was an assassin, and he was good at being quiet, which was why she felt a pang of fear when she realized that the loud, purposeful steps ringing above her were his. He was not being quiet now; he was being led somewhere. She felt impossibly angry at the though, and she fought to temper that ire into the cold steel of precise work.

She slipped quietly up and through the rails, landing softly behind him. She followed for a time before he suddenly turned, his bow armed and aimed, and she barely avoided the shot. And then everything was a blur of fists and weapons, and somewhere in the midst of it all was Clint-not-Clint.

Her focus came from her necessity to stay alive coupled with years of both forced and voluntary conditioning. Barton was nothing if not a lethal opponent, and he was holding nothing back. Natasha could see in his eyes that he intended to kill her; it was nothing personal, just an order. It sent a shiver through her and fed her strength.

Clint's sweat and blood seeped into her mouth when she bit his arm – salty and bitter – but he let go with a wince. She swung around his arm, which was strong enough to actually support her weight for a moment, and sent him flying into the railing. The force of his head smacking the metal made the entire grate below her reverberate, and the sound echoed through the air. He struggled to gain his balance on hands and knees and fell back, looking at her.

The world stood still for a moment. She stood at the ready, years of training screaming at her to finish the job now, but she couldn't move. Something held her back.

"Tasha?"

Her heart fluttered for a moment, hope sparking within her. But she had not earned the Black Widow title for nothing, and she used a loose fist to finish the job.

Barton fell back, unconscious, and Natasha took a moment to breathe. The clarity of adrenaline and fighting began to wear off, and she swallowed the thoughts that began to creep up. Taking a deep, calming breath, she spoke into her comm, "I have Barton. He is down, and I need a crew to come take him to medical."

And then she waited.


	14. Gonne spread you like

**Author's Note: The final chapter, and only, like eight hundred months after I started this little fic. Seriously, this holds barely a match to some of the epic-length fanfics on this site, and I could barely get more than one up. So to those of you who write novels of fic, I salute you. Also, I would just like to once again thank those of you who favorited/commented/followed this story. Cheers!**

Chapter 14: Gonna Spread You Like...

It was a strange feeling for Natasha, a woman who had defected from a generally overzealous-in-its-pride country, to want to lash out at someone for attacking her home base. Patriotic had never been a word that she would have checked off of a personality quiz, and yet here she was, watching over her partner, thinking of how she could contribute to shoving some sort of vengeance up Loki's ass.

"Do you know what it's like to be unmade?"

She could have scoffed at his question, and he could have, too, if he were completely himself. Every major turning point in her life had been a kind of 180, and it was not always entirely voluntary. She could be the _poster child_ for being unmade, made, and repurposed. But he had been hit on the head, so she let it go. Besides, she was more happy to have her partner back than wounded by his borderline thoughtless question; they hadn't been partners this long without her occasional oversight of his tendency to be a grade-A idiot at times.

"We have to do something," she said; it had been a repeating track in her mind, and she had finally said it out loud because, well, _they had to do something._

"Who?"

"I don't know. Whoever's left."

"Well, I suppose if I put an arrow in Loki's eye, I might sleep a little better."

"Now you sound like you."

"But you don't. You're a spy, not a soldier. And now you want to...wade into a war. Why? What did Loki do to you?"

"Nothing. I just..."

Maybe it was Loki, but maybe it wasn't. Loki took Barton, sure, but the seeds for her new-found sense of responsibility had been planted long before she had ever thought to freshen up her knowledge of Norse mythology.

"I've got red in my ledger."

And there it was – again – her self-imposed debt to society. She had joined SHIELD in this same line of reasoning, had gone about her job with a singular focus, and she had made minimal changes. Here was a chance for her to seriously step in and save the day; how could she let that chance go? Here was a huge payment toward the principal of her debt.

So when Cap came back and told them to suit up, she was ready. Or, at least, she thought she was.

On the ground in New York, a slough of dead aliens around her, charred remains of cars, and the distant echoes of people screaming, she felt painfully _human_. Her body kept reminding her of that, and watching Tony in his incredible suit of armor, or the God of Thunder, or even the super soldier, made her wonder why in the hell she was even there. Maybe her debt would only be paid with her life.

"None of this is going to mean anything if we don't close that portal," she breathed. _None of my debt will be paid if we don't succeed here._

And, okay, maybe jumping onto one of those...things...hadn't been the best option, but desperate times and all that. Besides, it seemed infinitely safer compared to some of the old equipment that the Russians had had her use; seriously, a Katusha rocket launcher had been inaccurate in World War II, so why would they have her using it in the 80's or 90's? And maybe it was a bonus that she had left Barton just a little bit speechless.

"The Tesseract can't defend against _itself_," Dr. Selvig had said, and she thought that it all sounded too good to be true. It couldn't be that easy; _nothing_ was that easy.

But anything was better than giving up, so she found herself clinging to the wall of Stark tower, climbing down to where Loki's scepter had fallen. When it was finally in her hands, she almost started shaking; doubts plagued her, and she was surprised to find herself praying that it would work. _We have at least one god on our side, maybe that will buy us some sympathy._

The climb back up was both desperate and exhilarating, and she threw herself onto the top of the roof with a breathy chuckle. She was half mad, she felt sure, and she was desperate, which was a position she rarely found herself in. She rolled onto her hands and knees, pushed herself up, and half-carried, half-dragged the – what was it Tony called it? - _Glow Stick of Destiny_ to the pulsing orb of whatever the hell Selvig had created.

She closed her eyes when she tried it the first time, convinced that it would either blow her up or just not work, and she wasn't sure which outcome was worse. She pushed, and she felt the energy field fight back, then give, like pushing through a magnetic field. She opened one eye to peak, and when she was convinced it was working, she opened them both.

"I think I can close the portal. Can anyone copy?"

Natasha was surprised how small her voice sounded. She was still shaking, and Tony's news about the nuke hurtling toward New York City did little to calm her. She watched, alone and yet somehow with the other Avengers, as Tony carried the bomb up toward the portal. She was praying again; he disappeared.

She held her breath, and despite herself, she felt a deep sorrow when he didn't reemerge at once. Her teammate's voice shouting to close down the portal jerked from her reverie. She hesitated – what about Tony? But her debt won out. It always did. She pushed against the energy field again, driving the end of the scepter into the heart of Selvig's contraption. And if her life flashed before her eyes in that moment, she would never admit it.

It wasn't until later, when the group was in the crumbling remains of the restaurant, being served by people whose entire lives had probably just been overturned, that she felt some of the weight lift away. She wanted to hug all of them, thank them for helping her on her quest to redemption, but she wasn't that kind of person, and she wasn't entirely sure any of them were physically capable of hugging or being hugged. Maybe Thor. _Maybe_.

She still felt human, but she also knew that she had earned her place at the table. She had earned her title, the right to call herself an Avenger.


End file.
